


001

by tepidspongebath



Series: Numbered Porn [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this fill on the Sherlock kink meme: <i>John goes out and has lots of satisfying sex with multiple partners (whomever you please). Sometimes with more than one person on the same day. Maybe even sometimes with more than one person at the same time.</i></p><p><i>But every time he comes home, he takes off his clothes while NotInterestedInSexForHimself!Sherlock prowls around him, deducing </i>exactly<i> what John did in bed (or out of it) and with whom.<br/></i><br/><i>Sherlock finds this quite satisfying.<br/></i><br/><i>John finds it QUITE... satisfying: he usually winds up either wanking or getting off one last time just to the sound (and on the occasions when he's all shagged out and can't get it up with a forklift, the memory is his fuel for the morning wank the next day).</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 001.1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : The characters of the BBC's Sherlock are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this.  

The first time it happened was when John came home the night he and Sarah first had sex. (It was wrong, he knew, that he counted it like that, but that was the way it had lodged itself in his brain - Sherlock first, everything else a distant second.) He was pretty satisfied with the world, with Sarah, with himself, so he didn't have to try very hard not to mind the appraising look Sherlock gave him from the sofa - of course he was still up, the man hardly seemed to sleep - and the drawled observation, "So you finally got it off with Sarah, eh?"

"Well, yes, if you must know," said John, shrugging off his jacket. "You don't mention that aloud in polite society, you know."

Sherlock tilted his head dismissively, effectively telling polite society to go fuck itself. His eyes raked down John's body, and up again, weighing, calculating, measuring. "It was nothing spectacular."

"It was a damn good shag, thank you very much," snapped John, though not too angrily. 

"Nothing out of the ordinary then. A bit of oral sex to get her comfortably wet, and then the missionary position, in her bed, under the covers. A condom for protection. You made sure she enjoyed herself, and while you did orgasm inside her, what did it for you was the fact that it was the first sex you've had since you got back to London." Sherlock closed his eyes, inhaled just a little more noisily than normal. "You prefer more...rigorous...encounters. And she'll take a morning-after pill before she goes to work."

John stared at his flatmate open-mouthed. He didn't know what shocked him more: Sherlock's effrontery or the fact that he had stayed to listen to it. 

"I'll--" He had to pause, lick his lips because his mouth had suddenly gone dry. "I'll thank you to not do that."

"Oh? The bulge at the front of your trousers says otherwise, John."

"Christ!" And John turned and pelted upstairs to his bedroom. 

He masturbated, though, as soon as he'd removed his clothes, and he told himself that it was the memory of Sarah clenching hard on his cock as she came that did it, and not Sherlock's voice in his head deducing the encounter.

***

Sherlock did not stop. He would, invariably, be perched on the sofa no matter how late John crept back into the flat, and he would always, without invitation or prompting, railroading through John's insistence that he shut up, work out a blow-by-blow account of what they had done.

"She was on her knees."

"Really, John? Cunnilingus again?"

"You made her suck you off this time. Not the best blow job you've received, but the first one in a while."

And John ( _t_ _he devil makes me do it_ ) would not leave, would simply stand there while Sherlock drawled on about the sex he'd been having, getting steadily angrier and hornier, until Sherlock finished. Also invariably, he'd have a wank in the privacy of his room afterward, all the while telling himself that next time,  _next time_ , he wouldn't let Sherlock do this to him.

It was finally too much the night he and Sarah mutually decided that, despite the moderately good sex, it wasn't going anywhere. John, God help him, had rough break-up sex with an anonymous pretty girl in the back room of a pub, and he staggered back into 221B, alcohol sloshing uncomfortably inside him, and all sorts of angry and belligerent.

"Not Sarah," said Sherlock, sounding mildly surprised. "I didn't think the two of you would last long, but this is unexpected."

"Fuck you, Sherlock." John's voice was even, controlled, and he couldn't quite believe that he wasn't shouting, screaming, beating Sherlock to a bloody pulp, because he knew, he  _knew_  that he was mad enough to do it. 

"No, thank you. I'm not interested. You, however..."

"Seriously, Sherlock. Fuck you. I don't know what you get from this, you cold - you Goddamned, soulless son of a bitch." John started to unbutton his shirt, his fingers fumbling, from the rage, from the alcohol. "All right, then, tell me" --he pulled the shirt over his head, and a button popped off with the violence of the motion-- "what have I been up to?"

And he spread his arms, exhibiting his bare torso. 

Sherlock languidly got up from the sofa. It was the first time he had so much as moved since he started taking John's sex life apart. He walked towards the doctor, and circled him, keeping his distance.

"Mixed race girl," he said. "Asian, possibly Thai, and Indian, strong hint of Caucasian in the features. Dyed hair. You don't know her name."

"That's right." John undid the fly of his jeans, pushed them down to the floor. "What else, damn you?"

"I don't understand why you're so angry, John. It's not like Sarah meant all that much to you."

"Fuck you."

"You keep saying that. And you know she didn't. She'll stay a friend, maybe, if you're nice." Sherlock stopped in front of John, just out of arm's reach. "This girl, you bought her a drink. You talked, not much, because she was, you'll be gratified to hear, wasn't interested in more than a quick shag either." He breathed, deep, and John wondered if he was imagining a slight dilation of Sherlock's pupils as he went on. "You did it in one of the private dining rooms of the pub you were at - not your usual one, somewhere closer to Sarah's place. You had her on the table." There was a definite hitch in Sherlock's voice now.

"Go on," growled John, and he hooked a thumb in the waistband of his pants, pulling them dangerously downward.

"And you had her  _rough_. You held her down by the wrists and fucked her from behind. You  _enjoyed_  it."

"Hell, yes." John -  _Am I really doing this?_ he wondered in a small salute to sanity before going on to ignore it completely - pulled his underwear the rest of the way down. His cock bobbed up, already hard and leaking. 

"I'm not going to argue. You pounded into her, fucked her mercilessly, she probably has bruises from where you rammed her into the table." Sherlock took a step forward. "You can touch yourself, you know. I won't mind."

"Don't mind if I do." And John - what, what, _what_ was he doing? - put a hand around his cock and started to work himself off. 

"Good." This was said a trifle breathily.  "She screamed. She still had her top on. You didn't bother to take your clothes off, though you did remember the condom. You tossed it in the men's room afterward."

John rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock, closed his eyes, feeling the low thrum of Sherlock's voice at the base of his spine, remembering what it had been like, to not be careful, to take someone good and hard. 

"I said before that you liked a more vigorous encounter. You came hard, didn't you? And," Sherlock smirked, "you're about to come again. Just as hard."

John did. It was dizzying, mad, white heat pounding through him as his ejaculate spurted out over his hand, onto his stomach, onto the floor. He was on his knees when he finished, breathing deeply through his mouth, and Sherlock was bent down in front of him, looking him in the eyes. 

"There," he said, his voice infuriatingly calm again. "I think that was better than you wanking in your room after I'm done with you." 

"God damn you to Hell and back," said John. "Yes, it was."


	2. 001.2

And they did that every time John came home after he'd had sex. He knew he should feel guilty, violated, completely and utterly weirded out, but he didn't protest. Oh, he did use verbal abuse on Sherlock, but it was part of it now: he'd get home, close the door behind him, and strip, and Sherlock would work out every detail of the sex John had  been having while John, if he still could, got off on the sound and rhythm of his flatmate's voice. Sherlock went through various states between impassive and mildly aroused, but he never touched himself, never did anything more than talk.

Tonight his eyes went wide when John steps into the sitting room. 

"Two, John? In one day?" 

"Yeah, I've been busy." John sat down on one of the chairs at the breakfast table (he didn't just stand around while Sherlock went on about what'd been going on).

"And, naughty, Doctor Watson, one was a patient."

"Not mine." John slipped off his jumper. "Sarah's."

"And just how did that happen?" Sherlock stood, loomed almost, over the doctor. 

"You tell me," said John, spreading his legs, the friction of his trousers against his cock sending a little jolt of heat through the pit of his stomach.

"Hm. She didn't want you."

"No, wrong. She wanted me. She wanted me" --John rubbed a hand against his crotch-- "very much."

"She didn't want you as a doctor. She was looking for Sarah, who is...out of town?"

"For a conference." John pressed his palm against his hardening cock. This couldn't be healthy behavior, but fuck that.

"A conference." Sherlock nodded, watching John, as he always did, with minute and exacting attention. "And she didn't feel comfortable having another doctor giving her her annual check-up. But...she flirted with you, and you...you encouraged it."

"I won't deny it."

"You didn't mean for it to go so far, did you? But she took her shirt off, and her bra--"

"Beautiful breasts, she had," said John, increasing the pressure and the rhythm of his strokes. "Lovely."

"And you took the bait. You kissed her first, and then you, ha,  _worshipped_  her breasts before proceeding to lick her through to her first orgasm. And then you had her up on the examining table, with her legs hitched up over your shoulders."

"That's pretty much what happened, yeah. It was quick."

"And the second one."

"Wait a minute." John unzipped his trousers, pulled his cock out, and proceeded to stroke the shaft. "There, I'm good, go on."

Sherlock's gaze flicked down to John's penis, and back up to his face. "Are you sure you can continue?"

"Can you?"

Sherlock gave him a look that said _Please_ in the most sarcastic way possible. "The second one was frottage in the alley outside your pub after you had a drink with Lestrade. You talked about rugby."

"We didn't talk." John's voice was strained as his thumb circled his slit. 

"You and Lestrade, I meant. And of course you talked to the girl, how else could you have got her there? Minimally, though, which isn't usual for you."

"Mhmm."  _God_ , he was so erect, it  _hurt_.

"She finished before you did. And when she was done, she rubbed quite obligingly against the front of your jeans until you came in your pants. It's been a while since you did that." Sherlock's voice was heavy, low, and John wondered, through the haze of a near-orgasm, if he'd see more from his flatmate tonight. "The last time...uni, am I right?"

"I don't know - why - you - hadtoask.  _Ah!_ " John came, messily, before he meant to, lifting off the chair to push his cock harder into his hand in juddering pulses until he finished. 

He heard Sherlock exhale noisily, and he licked his lips. Still trembling from his climax, he looked up at his flatmate, who was looking a lot more hot and bothered than he'd ever seen him before. "That's not the only thing I haven't done since uni." 

And Sherlock exhaled again, a soft 'oh' of genuine surprise. John saw him flutter those long fingers of his in an unaccustomed nervous gesture. "That's the only thing you'll be doing tonight," he said finally. "Unless I greatly underestimate your virility."

It was almost a snarl. A back-off, don't-even-think-about-it snarl. John Watson took it as a challenge.


	3. 001.3

The next morning he jerked off, slowly, unabashed, to the thought of Sherlock naked and writhing beneath him. It disturbed him, sort of, more than the...sessions...they had post coitus - post  _John's_  coitus, to be exact. He couldn't work out where it was coming from, Hell, he didn't even think it was  _sane_ , it was definitely twisted but, God help him, he wanted,  _needed_  to see Sherlock come undone. Damned if he could tell when exactly that had started - he realized now that he'd been wanting it for quite some time. 

"You don't usually take your women on all fours," said Sherlock, three nights from then. Trust him not to say 'dog style.'

"Yes, but then I don't normally fuck two women at once."

Sherlock pressed a hand to his lips - his  _full_  lips, John let himself think that now, his full, exquisitely shaped, bitable lips. "Ah. Yes. One was straddling the other, facing you. And you were fucking the one underneath while you serviced the one who was standing with your mouth and your tongue."

"Tell me more, Sherlock." John was taking off his jumper, and his voice was muffled by the fabric.

"In detail?" 

"As you wish." John tossed the jumper onto one of the armchairs and proceeded to take off his shoes.

"The women live together. You went home with them after being introduced to one of them by an army friend you'd met up with. You fucked in the bedroom."

"Whose?" His trousers were off now, and his cotton boxers were halfway down his thighs.

"What does it matter?" snapped Sherlock. "A room with a bed.  I'd guess it belonged to the girl whose clit you took between your teeth."

"Good one." John stepped out of his underwear, and sprawled himself out on the sofa. "What else?"

"They kissed in front of you. They undressed each other before they took your clothes off. You found the giggling annoying, but the game was worth the candle." Sherlock drew a deep breath, tilted his head as if he was trying to work a crick out of his neck. "One gave you a blow job to get you hard. It was better than Sarah's, and you told her so. The other girl knelt behind the one servicing you and fingered her."

"Tell me how." He was getting aroused just listening to Sherlock's voice, watching Sherlock shift his legs as if a greater reaction just might be going on there somewhere beneath that dapper surface. (Sherlock was still in a dress shirt and black trousers. He'd probably been out himself.)

"The index finger first, rubbing against the clitoris, then against the labia majora, then pressing into the labia minora." John noticed the more scientific terminology, and wondered, with a stab of triumph, if Sherlock was doing that to keep himself from being turned on. His own cock swelled headily at the thought. "Then two fingers. Which...which she inserted into her flatmate's vagina. All this while her flatmate was sucking your dick. She eventually leaned over the other girl to kiss you while her flatmate climaxed."

"Spot on so far."

Sherlock adjusted his collar, as though he needed space to breathe. "You had the girl on her knees turn around, and you teased her for a while - rubbed the head of your cock against her clit before you pushed in. And you took her by the waist and began to thrust. Then the other girl stood in front of you, on top of her flatmate, and observed that your mouth wasn't doing anything. Since her crotch was immediately in front of your face you didn't need any extra coaching there." 

"Do you want to know what she tasted like, Sherlock?" It was an open and unabashed invitation, and John liked the way his flatmate's throat moved as he swallowed, yes, nervously.

"Like a woman who has had sex with multiple partners since she was fifteen and has had moderately good health care. You pulled out before you came, and ejaculated over both of them. It took a while before you could coax the other girl to orgasm - you needed to stick your tongue up her vagina."

"Damn right."

"You left while they were in the shower. Together. When many a different man would have jumped in with them."

"I didn't want you to miss out on the fun." John felt he was close to coming again, and he was sure he sounded like it - and he hadn't even touched himself yet. It was taking quite a lot of self control not to help himself with a few good tugs. He spread his legs, putting himself on display for Sherlock. "Look, I don't get why you do this if you're not interested in a good fuck yourself, Sherlock. I'm willing. I'm more than willing." He indicated the swollen cock bobbing against his stomach. "Help yourself."

"I don't need to. I'm quite...satisfied where I am." 

"Suit your-fucking-self." John got himself off, as lewdly and loudly as he could, which really wasn't difficult.


	4. 001.4

"Three people, John? Don't you think you're overdoing it?"   
  
"It's been two weeks."  
  
"So it has." Sherlock was in his pajamas and dressing gown, and his hair was wet as if he'd just come from a shower. He sat in the armchair facing the one John was occupying. "Two women and one man."  
  
"Yes." John worked on his trousers first this time, lifting himself off the seat to push them down to his knees.  
  
"I wouldn't have taken you for someone who gets into these things online."  
  
"I wouldn't have taken you for someone who deduces what kind of sex I just had while watching me get off on the retelling."  
  
Sherlock nodded in concession to that point. "So. You arranged this on the internet. You already knew one of them - a woman. Not very well, maybe - oh." The detective looked at John over his steepled fingers. "Sarah's patient. The one with the nice breasts."  
  
"That's her."  
  
"So you met up at a hotel - who was financing this? Or did you all just chip in? And--"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Early afternoon. You meant to go on for a long time." Sherlock cleared his throat. "You couldn't get it up with a forklift now if you tried, if I'm right."  
  
"Let me know if you're right then." It certainly felt like he was. John was drained, he had to admit it, and tired, and the only reason he as taking his pants off was because he was more than a little sore in some places and it was more comfortable to walk around naked.  
  
"You started...mundanely enough for this kind of tryst. Two pairs, a man and a woman each. Side by side. On a king-sized bed."  
  
"Don't stop, you haven't got to the good bits yet."  
  
"You had Viagra with you. Or some similar drug. After you'd had conventional sex, you rubbed against Sarah's patient's--"  
  
"Melanie."  
  
"Melanie's breasts until you came. While - while she gave the other girl oral sex and the man rubbed against your--"  
  
"Say it, Sherlock."  
  
"Buttocks." The detective's eyes were wide, and he was gripping the arms of his seat as if they were a lifeline. "John." He fixed his flatmate with a piercing look. "You're doing this to see if you can get me off."   
  
He said it tonelessly, almost, just another observation. Which was completely belied by the flush spreading across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.  
  
"Maybe I am. Tell me. What I did." John threw a leg over an arm of his chair, exposing himself obscenely. "I'm waiting."  
  
"You had anal sex with one of the women while the other man took her vagina. The other woman watched while she fucked herself with a dildo."  
  
"A vibrator."  
  
"Trivial difference. You paid her little enough attention. What you liked" -he paused to swallow- "what you liked was the friction, the - the tightness, feeling the other hard cock in her rub against yours. Even through several layers of muscle and tissue. You kissed over her shoulder." He stopped then, for much longer than he usually did.  
  
"Jealous?"  
  
"Just amazed at what you've been up to. Because after that you let the man fuck you."  
  
"Truth."  
  
"The women kept themselves busy while that was going on."  
  
"I don't want to hear about them."  
  
Sherlock took a long, shuddering breath. "He took you from behind. You were on your hands and knees. And you pushed yourself onto his cock like you wanted it."  
  
"I did."  
  
"You didn't. Or at least it wasn't him you wanted."  
  
"Three guesses who I did want, Sherlock."  
  
"He came before you did, and used his hands to get you off. You ordered room service afterwards. Ah, one of the women footed the bill." Sherlock rearranged his dressing gown so that the folds fell into his lap, but not before John saw that his pajama bottoms were tented.  
  
***  
  
John had gone upstairs afterwards, when Sherlock had done nothing more than sit there taking deep, measured breaths. If he hadn't been spent himself, he might have  _done_  something (that something being Sherlock), but the man had been right about his utterly not being able to get it up after everything he'd already been through. He had shucked his shirt off as he left in an ungainly striptease, willing Sherlock to watch him as he went.  
  
In the morning, John lay on his bed imagining what Sherlock could have gotten up to when he had been left alone. Had he waited for the erection to go away, turned himself off with thoughts of cadavers and tax returns and Anderson? Or, and John preferred this version, had he reached down with one of those elegant hands of his, slipped it into his pajama bottoms, and  _stroked_? John closed his hand around his own shaft as he pictured Sherlock putting his fingers around his cock and getting off on the knowledge of what John had been doing. He remembered every bit of hesitation, every hitch in Sherlock's breath as he'd gone through the sex John had been having last night, and the reaction, the actual human reaction to it.  
  
John rolled onto his stomach, pushed a pillow down beneath his thighs. He imagined Sherlock stripping naked before going to bed - he'd never seen the man more than shirtless before, and he had to make up the details as he went along - and jerking himself off, slowly - no, with need, with hunger, with urgency, losing control in the last few seconds before climax, with that massive intellect of his being reduced to jelly as he orgasmed, and John found himself rutting helplessly into the pillow as he thought of the  _sounds_ Sherlock would make, the small grunts of effort, the groans of pure pleasure, as he...oh,  _Christ_...   
  
It was, John had to admit, pretty damn twisted, getting himself off on imagining Sherlock imagining him. It was also one of his better morning wanks, though he'd have a job of getting the mess out of the pillowcase later.


	5. 001.5

Three uneventful weeks later (the only incident had been "Sarah again, from behind, in the storeroom at the surgery, for God's sake pull up your zipper" deduced from the doorway to the kitchen while John was still coming up the stairs), John staggered into the sitting room at four-thirty in the morning to find Sherlock standing at the window with the lights off and the violin beneath his chin.

"You could have asked them to drop you off in front of the flat," he said by way of greeting. "That was an uncomfortable walk you had coming down the street."

"Tell me about it." John peeled off his gloves, tossed them onto the table. 

"I will." Sherlock lowered his instrument. "That patient of Sarah's again, and two men this time, which was her call, but you didn't mind that at all. A different hotel."

"Nicer place. One of the blokes was rich." 

"And you've been gone since yesterday morning." Sherlock licked his lips as he faced the doctor. "You've been productive."

"That's one word for it."

"You didn't waste time on introductions. One of them had you against the wall just after you'd been told each other's names. He kissed you, licked his way into your mouth, and after you got over the initial shock, you kissed him back. He marked you on the collarbone once he'd gotten your shirt off enough."

"Easy guess, that." John had undone the top buttons of his shirt and he pulled the collar downwards to show the vivid bite mark blossoming against his skin. "What else?"

"He took you on the floor while the other two watched from the bed. He prepared you with his fingers and lubricant. It took him a while to find your prostate, that must have been frustrating. After a few thrusts from behind he pulled out and made you ride him instead. Not your favorite position, but you seem to have performed admirably well."

"So he told me."

"He didn't let you come yet, though you asked him to. The woman made you lie on your back so that  _she_  could ride  _you_ , and you liked that part." Sherlock edged closer to John, who was shrugging off his shirt. "While waiting for you to recover, they put on a bit of a show. Kissing. Touching. Foreplay. You wanted a bit of that, climbed on top of the woman and started sucking at her breasts."

"Told you she had lovely tits." John gave his own exposed nipple a pinch. He was still sensitive - not surprising since not an hour ago he'd been fucking what had felt like everything all at once - and he gasped.

Sherlock put the violin down on the table with exaggerated care. "Yes, you did," he said. "You touched her vulva while you licked her nipples, teasing more than anything else, nothing to induce orgasm. One of the men pulled your hand away and sucked her fluids off your fingers." He paused.

"Go on, Sherlock, you're not even halfway done yet."

"I'm trying to work out what you did first."

"Someday you're going to have to explain how you can tell in the first place." John undid the fly of his trousers. "Let me give you a clue--"

"No, don't. You had her again. On top of her this time. And before you were through one of the men started giving it to her in the arse." Sherlock tilted his head back, exposing the long, graceful lines of his throat. John thought that he'd very much like to bite that, to trace the veins and bone structure with his tongue, feel Sherlock's pulse beat beneath his lips, and he realized in amazement, as he pushed his trousers down, that there was nothing keeping him from doing that. Or at least trying. "You like that particular trick a lot. The memory alone is starting to turn you on." 

"Wrong."

"What?" It was the first time John had contradicted Sherlock that bluntly, and the tone was indignant, affronted.

John stepped out of the jeans pooled at his ankles. "It's not that that's turning me on. Though, God help me, there aren't many things I can think of that have the same effect. But what is turning me on right now, at this particular instance in all of time and space is your fucking sexy voice telling me who I fucked and how I fucked them." Dirty language, he didn't care anymore. "I've been having," he said, touching himself through the fabric of his boxers, "the maddest, filthiest sex in my life just so I can come home to hear you tell me about it. Tell me you didn't know that." 

"I did." Sherlock's nostrils flared, and John couldn't tell if it was from anger or his flatmate's version of arousal, and he couldn't care less. He cupped his hardening cock, and didn't even try to hold back the ensuing groan. 

"Twisted as fuck," said John, through clenched teeth as he increased the pressure on his groin.

"Certainly not as twisted as what you've been up to tonight."

"Tell me about that."

And Sherlock breathed out, slowly, controlled. "You didn't finish inside her, though you could have, easily. You pulled out and...and the other man, the one who didn't have his cock up the girl's arse, you started to suck him off. You didn't like the taste of it much, but you made yourself go on because..."

"Tell me, Sherlock." John pulled his hand away from his crotch, abruptly, because he didn't want to finish yet, he wanted this to last, and the sudden loss of stimulation had him gasping. 

"Because you wanted me to deduce what you did." Sherlock shut his eyes before he went on. "You swirled your tongue around his head. You licked up his shaft to his pubic hair. You took him in as far as you could, and you used your hands to cover what wouldn't fit in your mouth. He came in your mouth and you swallowed." 

There was a definite hitch in Sherlock's voice now, and a clear raggedness to his breathing. John slid his pants off, watching the deep rise and fall of his flatmate's chest beneath the ratty gray t-shirt. 

"You fucked him afterwards."

"Tell me how."

"By shoving your blood-engorged penis past his anal sphincter and into his anal canal and maybe even up into his rectum!" Sherlock spat out the words, angry, acerbic, pulling his dressing gown closed around him as he turned away from John.

"Perfectly sound analysis, Sherlock, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." John approached his flatmate, cautious and more than a little apprehensive. He put a hand on Sherlock's waist, and the detective shied away from his touch, twitching his hips sharply to the side to avoid John's hand. It was one of the most ridiculously sexy things John had ever seen.

He grabbed Sherlock's waist then, with both hands, gentleness be damned. "Tell me how I did him," he growled against Sherlock's shoulder blade. 

Beneath his hands he felt Sherlock tense up, and then relax, as if surrendering to some internal struggle. " _Tell me_ ," John repeated, moving his hands just a little in small, unobtrusive caresses, feeling the warmth of Sherlock's skin through his clothes. 

Sherlock's head arched backwards and he gave a little stuttering sigh before clearing his throat and continuing to talk. "You prepared him. With, with your fingers, and lube."

"How, Sherlock?"

"Index finger first. Smeared liberally with the lubricant. And then you pulled out and pushed in again with the middle digit as well. You scissored them inside him and he pushed up against when you hit his prostate." He drew an uneven breath. "Then your ring finger too. You held him down so he wouldn't move too much."

John ran his hands up Sherlock's rib cage - God, the man was thin - and his flatmate gasped. "You put on a new condom. You turned him on his back and - and you held your cock to his anus--" He cut off with a soft cry. 

The doctor pulled Sherlock closer, his erection resting against the curve of his flatmate's ass. He put his arms around Sherlock as the detective's breaths came shallower and faster.

"Go on," he said, spreading a hand against the tautness of Sherlock's stomach.

"You - you pushed your cock inside him up to the head before pulling out again. And then you pushed in deeper. You did that five, no, seven times before you were in him up to your balls, and then--"

John reached down to Sherlock's groin - the man was already hard, but not all the way there yet - and he cupped him roughly through his pajama bottoms. Sherlock's hips canted forward. 

"You started to thrust in earnest then," he said, his voice husky and even lower than usual. "The other two people--"

"Fuck them." John squeezed, and Sherlock gasped.

"You did. The woman anyway -  _ah_  - but they watched you. They watched you drive him into the mattress."

"Right you are." John pulled down the waistband of Sherlock's pajamas - the man wasn't wearing underpants - and pulled out his cock. The detective let out a stream of the dirtiest sounding monosyllables John had ever heard.

"You - had him - on his knees." A ragged groan as John closed a hand over his shaft, a slight buckling of the knees. "Hands and knees. But. You -  _oh_  - fucked him - so hard--" He was thrusting fitfully into John's fist now, while the doctor kept his other arm around Sherlock's midsection. "He ended u- _up_  on his - elbows with his face - digging -  _in_ to the sheets." A moan, an actual low, guttural moan that John could feel resonating through the man as he rubbed a thumb over the head of his cock, teasing at the slit. "He only - kept - his rear -  _end_  - up because you were -  _ah_  - gripping his hips. You left bruises." Sherlock was clutching John's forearms, hard enough for his nails to dig painfully into the skin. "Your orgasm -  _hngh_  - good God, you felt it take you apart."

"There's more to it, Sherlock." John tugged ungently on his flatmate's erection, and Sherlock bit back a shout. 

"More?" He gasped. "For fuck's sake," he snarled, "what  _else_  is there? You came inside him, and you kept hammering into him until you were through--" Sherlock froze suddenly, staring straight ahead, mouth open in an 'oh' of revelation.

"Say it." John stilled his hand, waiting.

"You said my name." It came out as an uneven whisper. "You imagined - it was me - spreading my legs for you, taking you in--" Sherlock bucked forward as John started touching him again. "You thought - of - of me--"

"I thought of pounding into you," said John hoarsely, keenly aware of his own arousal. "I thought--"

"Of fucking me senseless." Sherlock was surprisingly articulate for a man rutting into someone else's hand. "Shagging me so  _hard_  that I wouldn't be able to think. Of taking me apart with your cock and your fingers and your tongue..."

He trailed off, words turning into a staccato string of grunts and groans as John coaxed him to his climax. He cried out when he came, loud and with utter abandon, and John felt it rumble in his chest pressed against Sherlock's back, and in the arm he had tight around Sherlock's stomach. He stroked Sherlock through his orgasm, and came himself before his flatmate was through, the slight friction of Sherlock rubbing against him as he rocked back and forth into his hand, the  _knowledge_  and  _fact_  of Sherlock Holmes climaxing in his arms more than enough to make his vision white out.

When they were done, Sherlock sagged heavily against John who, unsteady himself, wiped his hand off on the front of the detective's shirt. 

"You'd do that again in a heartbeat," said Sherlock. He made no move to step away from John, simply stood there, breathing. 

"Wrong again." John took a length of Sherlock's dressing gown and cleaned himself off with it (it was soiled anyway, he thought). "I'd do more. But not in a heartbeat, actually not for quite a while, because I am  _spent_." And, feeling like he was taking more liberties doing this than anything else he had done thus far, he planted a light kiss on the back of Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock shuddered a little, a slight movement in his shoulders and neck, and inhaled sharply. "But you would if you could."

"Oh, God, yes."


End file.
